Chapter 1
Gerold’s dreams of a large, red-bearded Northman standing over Gerold’s own people, defending them, troubled him. His sole goal in life was to kill the Northmen, who had murdered his family. The dreams added to the visions of a Spectre who was trying to tell him something, the words always just beyond reach, were making him doubt his sanity.
Now, with winter closing in, the battles had become even more deadly as each side vied for supremacy. Gerold and the motley group of soldiers he fought with were holding their own, but at the end of this day, Gerold heard the Spectre’s words, words that made no sense.
You are becoming that which you hate,
A pair of green eyes, the key to your fate.
The Spectre had said more, but Gerold struggled to remember the words. His head felt like it was exploding, the beat of words driving him further into his drink, as the smell of wood smoke surrounded him. The Spectre had come out of the mist at the end of the day’s battle, a wraith of black and white. The white, sagging, parchment skin, black rag clothes, the voice a coarse roar. When he turned away, the voice repeated the words, this time in the soft sweet voice of a woman. Turning, he looked back as the presence smiled and faded away.
Anger welled up, surging through his veins. Curse those damn Northmen, curse them for killing his mother, sisters, brothers and father. He had been away when the attack came, or so Niketas, his friend Stephen’s father had told him. Stephen also said he was lucky, but Gerold did not feel lucky. In fact, he had no memory of that day or any days prior, other than hazy memories. Nothing of his home or his life before that day. His life, since he had been told of the Northmen’s actions, revolved around preparing for the very thing he had done today. Killing Northmen, each death a charge against his loss. They were killers, and he killed them for their actions. His acts an atonement for not being there when his family perished. Then the voice, sounding so sweet, much like a mother’s, echoed through his ears again, “You have become that which you hate.” Those words, coupled with his dream, confused Gerold, making him angry. He believed in what he was doing.
“A great day, our enemy running away like beaten curs,” Marcus laughed, clapping Gerold hard on the shoulder, spilling both their drinks, breaking the Spectre’s spell. “Here, let me refill it for you,” he laughed, reaching to take the skin from Stephen. He overbalanced and almost fell, spilling even more drink on himself and Gerold.
“Beware, friend Marcus, that the curs you so blithely speak of don’t turn and bite you,” Stephen shouted, draining his cup. He grabbed the skin from Marcus, refilling his own drink, then emptied the cup’s contents in one long swallow.
Gerold turned tired, bleary eyes to his friends. Stephen, shorter and fairer than Gerold, had been with him even before he took up the sword. Stephen’s family had taken him in, had fed and clothed him, allowing him to work while being cared for. Marcus joined them shortly after Gerold and Stephen became part of the group of warriors sent to stop the Northmen and their raiding.
It was Marcus, dark like Gerold, but only slightly shorter, who always had a comment that kept them laughing, even as it held pieces of truth. Together, the three had been through much. But no matter how close they were, Gerold didn’t believe either of them would understand the vision; the strange words he still was struggling to piece together and understand.
He’d been through it, and he didn’t believe it. Still, once those words entered his mind, no matter how he tried to drown the repeated words with drink, they haunted him.
The one who was an enemy,
a lover soon may be,
the friend you once trusted,
become enemy to thee.
The saying reverberated in his mind, causing him to wince in pain. He should be happy he’d finally remembered, but instead those words only made him angrier, made him want to open his head and dig them out.
“Go away,” Gerold mumbled, barely noticing the smell and dampness left by Marcus and his clumsiness. “Leave me be.”
“Why leave you alone?” Stephen questioned, a cautious look coming to his eyes. “All we are doing is celebrating a victory, and a hard-won one at that.”
It had been hard-won. The Northmen had fought with the ferociousness they were known for, not the peaceful traders some people thought. Back and forth the tide had turned between the two armies. What was most surprising was the low number of dead. True, the wounded counts were high, but most would probably be on the field of battle when next they met.
Gerold focused on his friends, true friends, who had watched his back as he had theirs. Not only during this day’s conflict, but so many others. Now, here he was, wallowing in misery because he imagined he’d seen a Spectre. They deserved better than a maudlin friend. Squaring his shoulders, Gerold smiled. “It’s the drink talking. Just want our cursed enemy to die, or to go back to the cold hell they came from.” He raised the drink Stephen had handed him when the other was empty.
Stephen and Marcus raised theirs, Stephen shouting, “Agreed, and with the morrow, or the next, we will make that happen!”
Rising, Gerold clapped his friends on the back as he moved away, heading for his bedroll. Yet, despite his intentions, Gerold found himself watching the darkness for signs of the Spectre. He cursed himself for a fool. Still, he was relieved at not seeing her or anything similar.
Falling to the ground, Which of you are true friends? echoed in his mind. His body aching from the blows, the constant movement of sword and shield, mind numbed, he cursed the Spectre for ruining the victory celebration, for making him question friends. With an arm over his eyes, Gerold silently cursed, Damn you, get out of my head.
Gerold tossed, turned and cursed his inability to sleep. After thirty minutes of fruitless effort, to exorcise the Spectre’s words, Gerold started to rise and go back to the fire when he saw Stephen and Marcus rolling into their beds. Sitting up, he mumbled, “What else will you curse me with you old hag?”
“I said, a great victory, we drove them back to the hole they crawled out of.” Marcus answered the first part of Gerold’s question, evidently not hearing the rest, for which Gerold was thankful. He didn’t want his friend thinking he’d lost his mind, even though he, himself, was beginning to doubt his sanity over the past few months. Today’s events bothered him more than he cared to admit.
Gerold grinned at his friend, hoping a conversation would help him put to rest the sound of the Spectre’s voice. “So we shall our throw cautions away?” he asked, reaching for the drink close to hand.
His words were met with silence. Looking at his friends he saw Marcus already snoring. Just at the edge of his hearing, he heard Stephen say, “Yes, throw cautions away.”
Gerold hailed his sleeping friends with a mock toast. “Here’s to us my friends. May the demons guide our swords, but leave our minds alone.” He drained his drink. Gerold was unconscious before he saw the smile in the eyes of the watcher.